The Farmer Calls For The Migrant.
La pisca los busca,
y la siguen.
They follow the crops like hungry sheep,
who seek greener pastures, only they
must feed first the shepherds
with the labor of their hands
and wash the feet of the patrón, with the sweat of their brow.
They face the cold and dampness of the early morn,
no reluctance in their hastened steps.
The midday sun lashes them with rays of heat
that roasts them to a coper brown
The brown that those in town resent.
The essential worker that picks from dawn to dusk
and sleeps in rundown shacks approved by
They exist but are non-existent to the squeezer of the melon
or watermelon thumper.
A penny a pound to face the dangers of the field.
Five pair of hands, five sets of legs, five aching backs.
Mother, father, sister and brothers,
it takes a family to make ends meet and feed the belly.
Vacations are for gringos and their kids.
Some migrants get to stay,
some run away when the migra shouts,
“Show me your papers.” and “Como te llamas?”
In a poetic refrain, we feel the pain of Jesus, Maria y Jose,
but they are invisible,
to the picker of the apple or the peach
who carefully select from the abundant shelves
of uptown grocers,
the fruits of the migrant’s labor.